


The Day You Came Into My Life

by aliciawillromance



Category: The Good Wife (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 11:33:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1303399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliciawillromance/pseuds/aliciawillromance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by the promo pictures for 5x14. Oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Day You Came Into My Life

**_A/N: This is what the promo pictures for 5x14 did to me (written before I knew there was a press release too but yeah, I'm late catching up with spoilers :P ). Nothing of this will probably happen, but that's exactly why fanfictions were invented._ **

* * *

I've been sitting at my laptop for what seems an eternity. The indispensable coffee mug on my table has been refilled and re-emptied too many times. I should consider taking a break but I can't. Not yet.

In a few days I'm expected to be in New York City, talking as keynote speaker at the American Bar Association conference. I've been working on the speech for days now. I'm being given a ten minutes introduction's speech. So much time to fill. It took me days to put it down and now I keep rereading and repeating it to an invisible audience, adjusting the speed, emphasis and cadence of my words, building pauses down to a fine art, making sure it fits the time perfectly.

I've never been fond of events like galas, awards and conferences. I always feel out of place. I always end up drinking too much and doing something stupid. But this time I'm well aware of the prestige and importance of such a recognition and I know better than to decline.

I close the laptop and snort, exhausted and very much unfulfilled. The words keep dancing and flickering in front of me, a sign that I spent too much time in front of the screen. Or that I'm overvaluing the importance of the speech itself. There will be dozens of lawyers talking, making good show of their prestigious careers and long-standing experience, all of them more deserving of attention than me. The more I think about it, the more I feel nervous and small.

 _The speech is fine, stop obsessing over it_ , I tell myself off.

Still, I can't help it. Before I realize it, the typed words are in front of me. Again. There is something wrong, something out of place, something off-key but I can't really say what. Among those few thousand words, there are some misplaced ones. It sounds like it lacks in something but as to what exactly, it's hard to figure it out.

 _The speech is fine_ , I repeat. I don't have to impress anyone, in the end. I only have to open a stupid conference.

The occasion of a lifetime. Or very close to being.

I can't work on it now. It's past ten in the evening and my brain's gears are starting to jam and beg for a break; I can't really blame them. I decide to sleep on it, maybe tomorrow I'll wake up with the solution already written in my head. And after a few hours of restless sleep and too many hours of courtroom battles, I'm on it again the following night.

I scroll down every word, every sentence, again, repeating it mechanically. My excessive zeal made me learn it by heart. I know it's good, I chose and pondered every word with great care and thoughtfulness, but nevertheless it sounds cold, impersonal, almost dull.

I skip the whole part about the importance and gratification of doing pro-bono – most of those lawyers probably saddle their youngest associates with it - and jump right to the acknowledgements. Cary and our associates; they all did a lot for me, we built this firm together. Mom and Peter; since the moment I told them about the new firm they've been supportive of me in every possible way. But in spite of this, it still lacks in something. It lacks in emotion, it lacks in heart-felt feelings. And for the life of me I have no idea how to fix it.

I work backwards into my memory, searching in my life for something, anything that I'm certainly still overlooking. I go back to the night I accepted Cary's offer. The tension and the adrenaline, the sense of guilt that I forced to silence. I go back to the day he offered to start our own firm, throwing it out there as a harmless joke. And this is when I realize what is wrong in this speech.

I'm making it about Florrick & Agos, when it's only supposed to be about me. I'm not there as a representative of my firm, I'm there to bring my experience and make it fascinating and engaging in front of all those people. It terrifies me a bit that what I lack with is exactly that kind of inspiration.

I know I did much more than just open a law firm with money that didn't even belong me. To open the firm was only an achievement. I'm missing everything that came before, I'm missing the journey and how it all started.

_How it all started…_

I find myself reliving the scandal for the millionth time. It's a dark cloud that will haunt me and persecute me for the rest of my life. The following days had been the worst of my life. I found myself suddenly in need of a work, after years spent out of the loop and cocooned in the comfort of my influential married name. I remember the job interviews, the discomfort, the sadness and letdown, the aching moral slaps as all the chances kept falling, one by one, turning out to be no chances at all.

I relive with a heavy heart the coffee at the small diner in the suburbs because I couldn't stand the pitiful faces of an upper-class I once belonged to. I can still see vividly Will's embarrassment at the weird and unpleasant accident that brought us back, in front of each other, after years of distance. I remember he didn't ask me anything about the scandal, because news were already telling everything that was necessary, actually more than needed. I remember he didn't ask me how I was doing because it was obvious from my face that I hadn't spent the last weeks partying. He simply took in that I was a mess and in need of help. It took me three years to find out the truth. Three years for him to confess how far he had gone to help me get the job I needed. It's a conversation I had forgotten, a revelation that hurt me at first but that now brings a nostalgic smile to my lips. Two years ago and it seems yesterday.

Without any hesitation I highlight 1082 words on my screen. The whole acknowledgments disappear with the simple pressure of the  _del_  button. 1082 words to be rewritten in the  _right_  way. But not now. There is something I need to do first to make sure I don't fail this time.

I drive to the suburbs, to a place I haven't been any more ever since  _that day_. It's still the same. Or at least it looks like it, for my memory of those days is very selective when it comes to details. I order something to eat, and in the waiting I open the laptop again. I start to type, confusedly. I write, delete, rewrite again, rephrasing the same sentences over and over. I know what I want to write but I have no idea how to express it. I close it again, forcefully, in a fit of frustration, then peep around at the other tables. My phone is on the table. It takes me less than a second to act. Before my mind has the time to think it, I'm already calling Will. I don't even know why I'm doing it. For what are our terms now, he might as well send me to hell, mock me or laugh straight in my face at my invitation for him to join me here. I can hear my voice falter as I mention the name of the diner, I'm not sure he remembers, it's been years ago and a different Will. And when his reaction is placid, a bit cold, I have the answer I was looking for.

When the waiter comes with my dish, I stare for a moment at what I ordered. I'm not even hungry. It was more an excuse to stay here without getting weird looks. And the food is still like that, completely untouched, when roughly twenty minutes later the ringing of the front door indicates that a new guest is walking in. I gaze towards the door and startle imperceptibly as I see Will. I can tell immediately that he's neither happy, nor surprised. He looks more annoyed, tired, exhausted; probably by a war that's been going on for too long.

"Hi," I murmur as he approaches my table with unhurried steps and halts in front of me.

"Hi, you wanted to see me?" he asks coldly.

I can't even bring myself to fake a faint smile, for I know it wouldn't be returned and it would only hurt more. "Yes," I confirm nervously.

I watch as he takes off his coat and sits in front of me. Out of the corner of my eye I catch the waiter approaching our table. With a quick gesture Will brushes him off, making very evident his intention to leave quickly.

"So what?" he asks, as he glances at the other tables, then directs his attention back at me.

"I have to open the American Bar Association conference," I cut it very short. I don't mean to impress him and he definitely doesn't look like that anyway.

"Congratulations?" he offers tauntingly.

I don't rise to the mild bait and go on with my improvised speech. I was hoping for some small talk but it's clear that it was only wishful thinking. "It's next week in New York and I'll be the keynote speaker, you know, a few minutes to animate and set the mood of a bunch of old fat lawyers," I explain, tongue in cheek, but my faint attempt at cracking a joke goes completely lost. "And of course I will have to give some kind of acknowledgement."

"I'm sure you have plenty of people to thank. Cary, all the forth-year backstabbers, your husband," he rattles off.

All the people I had initially thanked in my speech. In another occasion, with a different tone, I could find it funny. But Will's black looks makes it more bitter, ironic and not in a laughing way.

"Will, please. Don't make this harder than it already is," I plead him, drained and not in the mood for his psychological battering.

An apologetic grimace paints his face. Or at least I read it as an apology, I wouldn't swear to it. But he stops, and that's enough for me to resume this painful exchange.

"I'm going to thank you," I state with all the calmness I'm given, which is little, the strict necessary to fake it. And then I wait for his wisecrack, for I'm sure it'll come.

He shifts on his seat. He definitely looks surprised and taken aback. His eyes never lie. But his features are still forced into a mix of coldness and loathing which I'm not yet used to. I probably never will.

"You shouldn't. All I did was to fire you," he mocks me.

I'm almost relieved, I was expecting something much worse than that. My statement clearly wrong-footed him and I take the occasion to hit again while he's still disarmed. "All you did was to believe in me and to offer me a real chance." I keep up my quiet appearance but inwardly I'm a bundle of rumbling nerves.

"It's paying you off," he offers.

His coldness is driving me insane but I don't want him to catch the effect it has on me. He probably thinks it's his hate that hurts me more and I'd rather take his hate every day over this sharp callosity.

"I'm not expecting you to be there, actually it would be totally inappropriate and out of place for you to be there, but I wanted you to know it," I made clear. He wouldn't be there even I begged him and my pride is louder than that.

Will nods, taking in my request with a distressing calm. "Is that all you wanted to talk about?" he finally breaks the silence.

And I suddenly miss his muteness. "Is there anything else you wanted to talk about?" I bounce the question back at him.

He hesitates.

For a moment I think that maybe we are about to lay all our cards on the table.

"Not really," he shrugs.

I feel like I'm dying inside. "Okay," I whisper and I'm not sure he can even hear my voice.

His gaze is fixed on me in a way I can barely hold.

"Okay," he repeats with more decision, then stands up and moves to leave.

This was worse than I had pictured it, and I can't wait for him to be gone so I can finally breathe again. But when he's already at the door he stops, he seems conflicted and I start to pray that he doesn't come back for another round.

When he does, I swallow my anxiety.

"For what it's worth, I would do it again," he says.

"Fire me?" I mock him.

"Believe in you."

This time I'm the one taken off-guard. I nod an unvoiced  _thank you_  and hint a half-smile.

"And good luck with the speech," he repeats, still cold but this time his attempted congratulations sound a tad more convincing.

I finish my dinner quickly and drive back home. It's late and I'm tired but I have to do it now. Laptop open on the same file for the millionth time, I start to type, words flowing in front of me, sentences forming with confident independence. When I finish, it's less than 1082 words but it's better this way, so I don't have to worry about checking the clock every second. I read it again, only once, and beam at the screen. Now it's perfect, exactly as I want it to be.

/

I walk down the pompous hallways of the Waldorf Astoria, following the signs that lead me towards the conference room. There's too much marble, too many chandeliers, too many statues. Too much of everything. I'm excited, but equally nervous. I can't wait for this to be over. The twenty minutes between my arrival and going on stage are the longest of my life. I check the printed speech for the umpteenth time. I read a few lines, suddenly it doesn't look as good as before but it's okay. It's too late to freak out anyway. The host calls my name, I stand up straight, hold my head high, and offer a confident smile at the audience.

I have a moment of uncertainty as I stumble over the first words.  _Breathe, Alicia_. But the many repeats help my confidence and I grow surer and surer with each sentence. It comes all natural. I smile inside as I catch nods and gestures of approval among the audience. Most of the speech flows independently. Each pause and emphasis falls just right, perfected over days of exercises.

But when I reach the acknowledgment, I halt and swallow. I read Will's name on the paper and keep skipping between the current page and the next with hesitancy. I told him he shouldn't be here but it was more to free him from the embarrassment of having to say no, and to spare myself the fallout of hearing him say no. I skim through the pages and my perfect conclusion sounds useless, breath wasted on strangers who know nothing of what his past gesture means to me.

I catch a silhouette standing in the corner and I know I have to hurry and move past my emotionality. It's probably the man in charge of the conference schedule who's making sure I'm not taking more time than I'm granted. I turn to assure him that I'm almost done, but my heart skips a beat when I found myself staring at Will instead.

He came.

_He came._

He's staring at me with that seriousness that's been printed indelibly on his face for months now. Not a smile, not a nod. Nothing. Still, he's there.

I strive to contain the happiness. I hint a smile, my most discreet one, for it's meant for him alone, thus hidden to the audience. And maybe it's only the lights of the room playing tricks at me, but I could swear that for a fraction of a second he's returning the smile.

I clear my throat, stand up straight and gaze back at the audience with newly found energy and enthusiasm. I enunciate the next thousand words with all the emotion, passion and sentiment they mean to me. At some point, I don't notice the silent listeners anymore. Except one. These words are for him. This words are everything I never told him before. And if I did, they got forgotten over the last months of cold war.

I close my speech among the applauses and I know that I did something right. I thank everyone for the attention and for the treasurable opportunity, then leave the stage to its owners. Will is already walking away of the conference room and I follow him outside. I find him standing beyond the door and I exhale with discretion that he's not just running away.

"Thank you." It's all I have to say, I know that my speech already said everything and even more than needed.

"I was already in New York City, thought I'd pop in," he downplays it.

But he could as well have ignored the fact I was here. A few days ago he probably would have.

"Great speech, by the way. You won them," he congratulates me on the success.

"I did… didn't I?" I nod with a smile.

And before I can think it, I'm leaning towards him, hugging him tightly, because a spoken  _thank you_  is far from being enough.

He seems reluctant, or hesitant. His arms don't move and I fear that he's going to pull away, maybe afraid of the side-effects of a physical contact that we both know have always been beyond our control. And when instead he embraces me, timidly at first, then more warmly, it's like finding back something that had been missing for too long.


End file.
